


Rather be broken with you

by dmdiane



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst with a Happy Ending, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Greg is determined, M/M, Mycroft collects books, Non-Canon Relationship, Post TFP, The series credits never happened, a brief appearance by the Queen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2019-03-10 08:50:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13498646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dmdiane/pseuds/dmdiane
Summary: In the wake of the business with his sister, Mycroft loses his job and decides to leave London for his own safety rather than maintain all that security. Greg has one trick up his sleeve to find him.





	Rather be broken with you

Mycroft Holmes stands at the parking garage exit behind Vauxhall Cross and buttons the top button of his overcoat. _Well. That’s that then._ Mandatory indefinite leave of absence is a definitive outcome in the wake of the events involving his sister. He squints up at the roiling blue-gray tumble of clouds, takes a very deep breath, and walks away.

Mycroft faces his choice between close protection or vanishing with his customary calculation. He weighs either course of action as dangerous. The dark world of intelligence and security is cutthroat at best. His political absence since his sister’s latest killing spree hasn’t gone unnoticed. Losing his job doesn’t mean he’s lost his mind. There are a variety of powers, both good and evil, that would take considerable risks on the off chance he’d break. He can feel the watching. From everywhere.

Worse than being a trapped bug under glass are the messages. There are messages from Mummy demanding his removal from the family estate, his relinquishing of family finances, it seems she’d like him to evaporate if possible. There are messages from Sherlock about resolving Mary Watson’s estate, selling the Watson home, purchasing 221B Baker Street from Mrs. Hudson, all couched in a strained language of brotherly concern. There are messages from Greg inquiring about dinner, relaying anecdotes about Sherlock, several that just say ‘hello.’ There are messages from prison asking about care for Eurus, the disposition of her few possessions, a possible transfer to secure facilities in Denmark. He’d like to pitch the damn phone into the fireplace and he would if he didn’t know that such an action would bring the furies of MI6 straight through the door.

He knew a day would come when he’d want to retire and of course he planned. He can theoretically move those plans forward a couple of decades. It’s almost handy that his parents have disowned him and the service has taken up the surveillance of the family. Sherlock has no more need for rescue with the tiny angry army doctor back at his side. They may hurt each other, but they’ll protect each other from the rest of the world’s dangers well enough. Rosamund is the most stabilizing influence either of those two men have ever had.

In the end, Mycroft hates the specter of being boxed in by close security protocols with nothing to do. It was bad enough when he was working. The choice makes itself. He spends two days wrapping up loose ends with the service. With a stop at the palace to inform Herself of his plans, he goes. Gone.

*

Sherlock appears on the steps in a swirl of black wool with a scowl on his sharp features. “I told you to look after him.” He accuses.

Greg throws his hands up. “I did! I would! What the..? You said you’d be a better brother.” Greg falls back on a defensive accusation of his own. “Sherlock, what the fuck? Where is he?”

“I don’t know.”

“You…”

“Shut up. Don’t speak. Don’t think. I need a moment.” Sherlock seems not to have noticed the steadily increasing rain. At least his tone isn’t as cutting as it can be. Small favors. It’s Greg’s day off. The drizzle picks up, cold rain sliding down his neck and under the collar of his coat. His day off and he’s looking for Mycroft Holmes. He sighs.

“When you see him, tell him… no, don’t tell him… no… I...” Greg mutters. There’s a tube stop two blocks from here. He’ll ride the tube for a bit and try to sort himself out. Then he’ll head home for a hot shower and a good book. Sherlock’s hand on his arm is unexpected. “What?”

“Anthea hasn’t heard from him. Apparently, he was put on indefinite leave. Mummy and father haven’t heard from him since mummy forced him out of the estate house. He hasn’t visited the club. And neither of us has seen him in two weeks.” Sherlock ticks these points off on fingers.

“Wait, back up, what does indefinite leave even mean?”

“Surely even you understand anyone in his position cannot be fired,” Sherlock says.

The unease Greg feels about Mycroft’s absence roars from a spark to a full-on conflagration.

Takeaway with Sherlock and John devolves into a blow by blow account of everything that happened at Sherrinford prison. Greg knows the youngest Holmes sibling is a serial killer of frightening ability. He had no idea exactly what she put her brothers through. His heart physically aches from the knowledge. In the immediate aftermath, he took Mycroft home and shared a few meals with him at Sherlock’s request. Mycroft hadn’t said a thing about the psychological abuses or the fear none of them would survive. They’d survived, but Mycroft lost the only things Greg knows him to care about. It sounds a bit like Mycroft tried to die that night.

“Don’t be dramatic.” Sherlock scoffs at Greg’s expression. “He may not be as strong as he thinks he is but he’s been through worse and managed.”

 _Worse?_ “What d’you categorize as worse?” Greg’s question is reflexive, he doesn’t want an answer.

“He was gone for two years after his wife died. He came back bossier than before.”

John frowns, setting his mug down loudly. “Mycroft?” The incredulous tone in his voice and in his eyes is a milder version of what Greg feels. “Married? I can’t imagine.”

“He had… his wife died?” Greg looks between Sherlock and John.

“Ancient news,” Sherlock says. “Why are we talking about him? Dull. Erus was moved to a cell with windows. Mummy is visiting weekly.”

Greg stops paying attention to Sherlock’s recitation. The desire to know where Mycroft is expands in his chest. Not that it’s any of his business. _Dead wife?_

Victoria’s infidelity and the divorce eclipsed any mentions of Greg’s first wife Julia and son Luke in polite conversation. The car accident was twenty years ago and past most of his current social circle’s memory of him. But surely Mycroft’s file on him includes the circumstances. Surely Sherlock told him. Right? _How do we have this in common and Mycroft say nothing?_ His diaphragm contract as if he’s been punched.

Sherlock is on about playing duets with his sister, which sounds vaguely dangerous to Greg as he resurfaces to the present. Does Mycroft know about that? Mycroft’s absence from daily life is like losing a limb. Greg feels ridiculously fixated.  

*

In Istanbul, Mycroft misses Sherlock bitterly. Browsing through maps of the Ottoman empire in the Librarie de Pera, his thoughts unspool back to Sherlock’s travels during his infamous death. Phone calls then focused on practicalities but just as often on the oddities Sherlock saw. Those conversations had been almost like when Sherlock was a kid and they were friends. As much trouble as his baby brother has always been, he was Mycroft’s trouble. He quashes the impulse to call, reminding himself that the Sherlock he enjoys talking to is rarely available to anyone beyond John and never anymore for him. The smell of paper and binding glue is a tremendous comfort. He chats with the proprietor about book collecting, after a cup of strong tea the proprietor points him to a tiny antique bookseller for later this afternoon.

In Almaty, Kazakhstan, he misses his colleagues. Alicia, Edwin, and Gareth must now be the three musketeers of British intelligence, he misses being the fourth. Without thorny security or political problems to resolve he’s left to dwelling on his own thoughts about himself. He tries to frame this as field work. When he was in the field he never had this ridiculous desire to see a familiar face. He refuses to call it a need. Wandering through the Kazakh Museum of Folk Musical Instruments, he eavesdrops, picking up the subtle shades of the language. Oddly, he doesn’t miss responsibility. He feels new, lithe, and unencumbered. He felt fat his entire life, firstly because he was a fat kid. It seems in hindsight that duty took the place of food and he’d binged on it for two decades. He plunks out a melody on a drumba, garnering the attention of two little girls who giggle and clap.

In Lampung, Sumatra, he misses Greg, whose fierce protective nature and outsized heart reminded him so much of Emma that he’d entrusted his brother to him. Greg would love this ragged land with its volcanic heat. If ever there was a soul who loved a mess. He smiles, recalling Greg’s face, those eyes, with startling fidelity. A man who’d come a close as anyone to being a friend and very nearly more.

Twelve years ago, still an agent at the time, he did what spies do and backstopped a complete and useful alias. Until now, the service could track him should they want or need to. But, time’s past for that. They must have what they need from him as no one has attempted contact in the five months he’s been gone. Odd though it is to be expendable, he’s ridiculously pleased with how well he trained Anthea to take his place. The transition has been seamless from the outside. As it should be. He leaves Sumatra officially as Michael Conrad, artist, graphic designer, and book collector. He sends the specifics to his sole contact in his old life in London. Unless he chooses otherwise, he is confident the link will die with her.

*

A sleek black car pulling up at the end of the street causes Greg’s heart to stutter. The leggy Anthea emerging from the back seat brings a smile to his lips, his eyes fix on the open door until it closes. He knows better, damn it. The expression of tender sympathy on Anthea’s face only underscores his foolishness.

“Greg.” Anthea offers her hand.

Greg takes it. “Alright, Thea?” Her fingers are slender and warm in his.

Her smile widens. “I hate to do this again.”

“But?” He offers her a tight smile.

“The Harkins investigation.”

He really does appreciate her doing this in person. He still hates it when Six swipes a case out from under them, but it’s better to know what’s happening and why up front than to have work just vanish. “Mmmm.”

“I’m sorry. Mr. Harkins is a person of interest to our friends across the pond and they’ve asked.”  She pauses.

“For you to take over the investigation.,” Greg finishes on a bone-deep sigh.

She nods.

Greg gestures towards the house. “I’ll have my people clear out, then, yeah?” At least they’ve only put hours in on this, not weeks.

“Thank you.” She says. “It’s always lovely to see you. I only regret the circumstances. You’re well?”

“Can’t complain.” He allows. In the short months she’s had the job, whatever it is, her conversation has gotten more formal. Hadn’t occurred to him that any of Mycroft’s formality and properness was job related. He supposes he could complain that she doesn’t have Myc’s dry wit, that CCTV cameras don’t follow him anymore. He could complain that she may be really good at this mystery job but she’s no good at making him feel safe. But, no, he won’t complain.

Whatever shows on his face makes her reach out and grip his arm for a moment. Just that quickly the touch is gone and she’s turned to the two cars spilling suits into the street. Greg grabs himself by the scruff and heads back into the house to break the news.

Dimmock takes the transition with more grace than Sally would or Greg ever has. Greg redirects Dimmock’s team over to a scene where Hopkins is supervising a multiple homicide investigation. He won’t sneer at the extra hands.

*

Mycroft married young and well, Emma was as fiercely ambitious as he’s always been and they’d planned to conquer the intelligence world in the service of the Crown. For five blissful years they were the twin terror of Mi6 until the day Emma’s headache crippled her and they landed in hospital where he watched the subarachnoid hemorrhage steal her from him right before his eyes. At least then he’d had work to bury himself. He’d emerged from two very dangerous years of grief and intelligence gathering to find Sherlock dropped out of school and addicted, Eurus imprisoned after killing at the mental institution, their parents blithely aware of either, and his Uncle Rudy’s admonitions about caring. It hardly mattered at the time. He couldn’t have loved another soul if his life depended on it. He resolved to loving his country, strictly casual affairs with both men and women in a largely solitary life caring for his family. Shortsighted, perhaps. Disastrous, in fact.

By New Zealand, Mycroft’s loss of social identity feels like it did after Emma died. He’s in the best shape he’s been in since he was a field agent. The red tones in his hair are brightened by sun. His beard is finally, finally no longer driving him spare. He wears trainers more often than shoes and left his last suit in Japan. He’s invisible here, where almost everyone is white and large and loud. He tests his legend by applying for an adjunct teaching position at the Whitecliffe College of Arts where he can polish his bookbinding and acquire the foundations of a rare books collection.

His camouflage complete he begins moving back toward the west. When he originally crafted this plan, he assumed he’d be older and not quite so much a target in London. He misses his city, though he’s found pieces of it every major city he’s been in the past six months. The sun still hasn’t set on the British empire in culture if not in power. And who’s to say if that isn’t the most influential kind of power anyway? Still, London isn’t safe. Not yet. Plan B is New York, City.

*

“Christ this is a mess,” Greg mutters, stepping over a puddle of something unrecognizable and rank. The bodies must be on the other side of the skip and the alley is crowded with investigators, forensics, Sherlock, and John.

Donovan leans back and smiles. “Hello, boss. What can we do for you?” She shines with her promotion to DI, some of her sharpness soothed by authority.

“Stopping by to see what you’ve got.” He tries to stop in when a case is so hairy someone calls in Sherlock by choice.

Sherlock hovers over a pair of shoes by the skip, entirely occupied. Bent over like that he looks more crow-like than he usually does. Mycroft will not materialize here with his shiny shoes and brolly either.

Greg shifts his attention to John, who greets him with a nod. Greg steps beside him. “Alright John?”

“Fine.” John’s smile broadens. “You?”

“Fine.” Greg shoves his hands deep into his pockets. At this, Sherlock’s steely gaze snaps to him. He looks him over and narrows his eyes. Greg shuffles under the intense scrutiny.

“You want something personal.” Sherlock accuses. “Dull. Working.” He turns back to the shoes.

Greg doesn’t want anything from Sherlock, does he? Sherlock doesn’t often get his deductions wrong. As Donovan confers with the scene of crime techs, Greg considers. Maybe he does want something personal. He could have gone back to the office, gods know he has enough paperwork to last him a week.

John raises a brow.

Greg rolls his head on his neck and tries to shake off some of the frustration. He’s becoming used to being DCI, and the empty evenings and weekends that come with it. He really should’ve applied ages ago, might’ve saved his marriage. Nah, Vic just didn’t like him enough not to stray. Bound to be nasty.

Since the divorce and the promotion, he feels like he’s almost made of free time. He’s caught up on Doctor Who episodes, he reads for pleasure. He has beer ‘round the pub with John once a week and plays on an over 50 football team. He can’t recall any other part of his life that included socializing. It’s still a 60 hour week and he averages twelve hours a day, but he’s home by seven and has every weekend off, an embarrassment of idleness. Fact is he’s lonely and the only person missing from his life is Mycroft Holmes.

Greg rocks back on his heels, hands in pockets. There’s is one slim possibility and it isn’t asking Sherlock. He walks back to the end of the alley and digs out his phone.

“Greg?”  She picks up on the second ring, voice filled with surprise and delight. It seems a million years ago that he was seconded from the Yard to MI5 to coordinate the classified security detail for then Kate Middleton when she graduated university.

“Hullo, duckling.” He immediately straightens, as if she’s right here. “I hear congratulations are all the rage these days. Again. How are you?” Fondness swamps around his heart. The security detail was invisible, secret, and successful. Since then, they’ve only spoken a handful of times. She called just after the shift to the royal security detail and the move to Kensington Palace, lonely and a bit scared. He called after the wedding and both babies. Each time it’s as if they’ve just spoken yesterday and he reflexively calls her by her code name, his pet name for her.

“Retching to beat the band. How else would I be?” Her chuckle is soft.

“But, no hospital this time?”

“No. Not yet.” She pauses. “You certainly didn’t call to ask that.”

“No, love. I’m hoping for a favor.” This pause is longer. He’s never asked for anything. Ever. Certainly not a favor.  Greg hasn’t thought this out well enough. “Nothing untoward. Just wondering if you would possibly give a message to Herself from me?”

More silence.

“I’m sorry, Kate. I shouldn’t have…” He backtracks immediately.

“Nonsense. I just didn’t know you knew her. Of course. What on earth is wrong?”

He scrubs his hand through his hair. “No, no. Never met her. I, it’s just, I, we have a friend in common. She probably doesn’t even know I exist. But, I’ve lost touch with this friend and she’s the only person I can imagine who might know where he is. I don’t… he was in the service… I don’t want to put him in any danger. Just…” He stops at her very soft giggle. Christ. He pulls himself together. “I was hoping you could ask Herself to tell Mycroft I miss him.” He forces the words out smoothly.

“Oh, Greg.” The sudden sympathy is a bit mortifying. She sighs. “I will tell her this evening. I didn’t know you were a friend of the Holmeses.”

“I wasn’t when you and I met. I met Sherlock when I went back to the Yard.” He marvels at how outside of current events she stays. “Thank you. I will owe you one.”

Ridiculously, he feels better after he ends the call. He’s at least done something.

*

“Mycroft, I have a message for you. Call me.”

Mycroft listens to the message in his voicemail. The Queen doesn’t call people as often as one might think. One is so much more likely to get a message from her valet. She’s also Mycroft’s Great Aunt Lily and she has insisted on weekly correspondence. No doubt his mother is badgering her for something. As much as he dreads finding out what, he calls immediately.

Regardless of his mood, his Aunt delights him. He inquires after the young Princes and Princesses, and Magpie - his favorite of the corgis - before asking what message she has for him.

“Greg Lestrade misses you.” She offers. “Is it a code for something?”

Mycroft is dumbfounded, his vision glazes for a long moment. “Pardon me?” He finally manages a few words as his mind whirls. His aunt chuckles. He pulls his attention back to his call. “I don’t understand. How?”

“The Detective Chief Inspector sent that exact message through Katherine. Who is he to you?”

“Who is he to the Duchess?” Mycroft is baffled.

“He supervised her security detail for years. Wills and Katherine think quite highly of him. The real question is why is he sending you a message through me?”

Mycroft shakes his head. “He met with the Duchess?”

“Mycroft, you cannot put me off with more questions. That is the only message he gave Katherine and she gave me. Now I’ve given it to you. I rather thought it might be some kind of code although I’d suspect any personal messages to go through Sherlock.”

“Sherlock can’t communicate with me. No one can.” Stay alive and off all radar for two years. That is the agreed protocol. Which he has followed with this one, very singular exception. It defies his imagination how the protocol has been so thoroughly circumvented. If ever someone could entirely thwart Mycroft’s carefully laid planning it would be Lestrade. The thought is both vexing and pleasing in the same instant and Mycroft closes his eyes.

“I take it you were not expecting a message. From anyone.”

“No, I…”

“And you are surprised.”

“Yes. I…”

“You had best tell me the whole story then.”

*

The summons comes with a black limousine at the curb. Anthea sits demurely in the back and Greg marvels that he hasn’t seen her with her blackberry since she got promoted.

“So, the Queen?” He offers instead of a greeting. He settles into the seat and buckles in, wondering what he’s set in motion with his phone call.

Anthea’s brows rise, genuine surprise in her eyes. “I am not privy to whatever this is, Inspector. In this instance, I am merely secure transportation.”

“‘Course you are.” His face grows hot in anticipation of serious embarrassment. This is undoubtedly why people don’t just send a message to the Queen. Despite or maybe because he ran the covert security detail for the then Miss Middleton between college and engagement, he’s never met the Queen. That protection detail had to be run entirely outside of royal security and was successfully deployed for five years without being leaked. It seems an age ago that he’d been regularly ferried to one or another castle to meet with Prince William. He smiles at the memory as the limousine traverses the several entrances to the castle grounds at Windsor.

Beautiful and old are the only things that come to mind when Greg observes any of the castles. His homeland has a romantic streak much wider than its island. He carefully does not wonder why his message to Mycroft has resulted in this visit. He focuses on the security measures, seen and unseen. It’s a lovely Saturday, that he should be in bed, and there are literally thousands of tourists milling about the public edges of the grounds and the castle. Eventually, the car swings through a rear portico and deposits him at a private entrance.

“You’re not…” He opens the car door, but Anthea hasn’t stirred.

“Nope.” She smirks. “Just making sure you got here.”

Greg straightens up, closes the car door, and shoots his cuffs. He’s slightly unnerved that the limousine is leaving instead of waiting. He pats his pocket for his phone and is greeted by what he can only assume is a footman. He follows unceremoniously through a maze of hallways, all of which are behinds the security veil within the building. The castle is quiet, but perhaps stone walls just do that. A variety of people work at desks and phones as they pass through the working corridors of the building, all of which increases his comfort. Working. He can do that.

A heavy wooden door is unlocked and opened from inside and they are suddenly in the private residences. Around three more corners and they are in a cozy living room that last saw a decorator in the sixties.

The footman offers a bow to the tiny woman standing by the windows. “Detective Chief Inspector Greg Lestrade, Ma’am.” He announces and retreats.

“Your Majesty.” Greg bows, which doesn’t feel even slightly odd now he’s actually here.

The little woman smiles. “Welcome, Mr. Lestrade. I’m so delighted to meet you at last. Please, come sit. We’ll have tea shortly.” Her Royal Highness Queen Elizabeth sinks into an armchair, looking as pleased as she sounds.

Greg sits, nonplussed. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ma’am.” He offers, wondering what the bloody hell he’s supposed to do now.

“I am truly appreciative to have a few moments with you.” Herself begins. Her manner is a strangely endearing mix of severely formal and absolutely charming. “I had no idea that the Greg Mycroft has often mentioned and the Lestrade my grandson so valued was the same one individual. You.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” Greg allows.

“Remarkable.” She says. “All this time, you’ve been such an asset to my service, you’ve also nearly been part of the family and it quite escaped me.” Her eyes sparkle. “I’m sure there are many, many people I ought to know better. But there are so few hours in a day.”

A woman comes in with a short curtsey and lays out the tray for tea. Greg uses the momentary interruption to survey his internal compass. He’s clearly not here to work and there’s no reason for him to be having tea with the queen as a social commitment. His eyes follow the tea service, laid out for them efficiently. He nods at the silent offers of both milk and sugar. Saucer and cup in hand, he looks back up at his hostess and finds himself on the receiving end of a knowing and clearly amused smile.

“I’ve invited you here to ask a personal favor.” The twinkling eyes continue to be amused. “Mycroft misses you terribly. ”

Afraid he will drop something, Greg sets the teacup and saucer aside. “Ma’am, have you seen him?”

She sips from her cup. “Let me explain how deeply I care for Mycroft. His grandmother Aloise and I were in school together. She was my ‘big sister’ and mentor in our house. When my father died and I ascended she came with me - formally as a lady in waiting of course, but more essentially as my friend. Our children grew up together as have our grandchildren. I have known Mycroft his entire life. He is also my trusted servant and friend. I am, dare I say this, meddling.”

Sherlock told him once that Mycroft enjoyed a casual relationship with Her Majesty. Greg suddenly understands this in a new way, having it so cautiously, if momentarily, extended to him. He makes his decision, as he does most, quickly and directly. “I miss Mycroft, too, ma’am. I feel like a right idiot trying to send him a message through your family. It was inappropriate. I’m incredibly sorry.” A raised hand stops him.

“There is no cause for that, my dear child.”

“That’s well and good, ma’am, but...” Greg says softly. “I thought Mycroft didn’t want to see me after…” He takes a deep breath. “I thought there might be a chance, that if anyone knew where he was… ” He swallows. “In a moment of panicked stupidity, I overstepped.”

Herself beams. “Delightful.”

“Ma’am?” Greg ventures.

Her eyebrows lift.

“You do know where he is?”

“I do.” Her smile widens and she sets her teacup on the table. “I fear I cannot disclose everything I know about the situation, but let us consider that he is on a long-term undercover assignment for his safety in the wake of leaving his position with the Service. I believe our friends in the United States call it witness protection.”

Greg’s heart contracts with the finality of the thought. “I didn’t fully understand how much risk he was facing. But, he’s alright?”

A very shrewd brown-eyed gaze takes him in.

*

The shop bell chimes gently, followed by a skitter of nails on the hardwood. Mycroft glances up from his armchair near the register. A red and white corgi trots up to him and sits obediently, tail a blur of delight.

“For heaven’s…” Mycroft grins reflexively, which isn’t going to help him shoo this pet from his bookstore. He looks up.

“Hi.”

Mycroft tilts his head, just in case this is a mirage. The book he’s reading slips from his fingers into the chair cushions. He stands.

Greg’s lopsided grin flashes broadly, dimpling his cheek. “Don’t panic. I’m actually in Canada.”

Nine months has sheared away all of Mycroft’s defenses. He plainly sees pleasure, affection, and need shining from Greg’s eyes. He stands motionless while Greg strides across the few feet between them and suddenly he’s in his arms, wrapped tight and sure. Everything about Greg Lestrade is as familiar and precious as a deep breath. Mycroft closes his eyes and inhales. His senses confirm Greg’s presence with warmth, pressure, scent. The rumble of Greg’s voice, gods only know what he’s saying, the vibration against his own chest causes a gulping sob to wrench up from his diaphragm and choke him.

“Yeah, I know.” Greg’s grip tightens, cheek pressed to his neck. Wet heat spreads on his skin.

Mycroft’s arms lift around Greg’s back, both hands fist into the soft cotton material of his shirt.

“God, yes.” Greg shudders against him.

For an instant, nothing exists but the raw and elemental reality of being held. Years of reserve burn away like so much tissue paper. He clenches his jaw against his tears and the world stutters, hiccups, in its journey. The weight and volume of his emotion for Greg shifts the gravity of his entire being. How has he lived without this? Perhaps he hasn’t. He sucks in air and ratchets himself back under control. As his awareness snaps back into place, he feels Greg’s embrace loosen with a deep breath and cough.

Greg leans away and swipes both hands across his eyes, leaving his cheeks wet and his gaze clear liquid chocolate. _There you are_.

 _You’re here_. Mycroft’s lips curl up at the corner. “I got your message.”

Greg chuckles. “I’m not all that surprised now I’ve met the messenger.”

“You’re not supposed to be here.” Mycroft keeps a hand on Greg’s chest, not willing to relinquish touching yet.

“Yeah, well, about that.” A becoming blush washes up Greg’s neck into his cheeks. “Your Great Aunt Lily asked me to accompany Magpie, who I understand has come to live with you. I might’ve misused our monarchy a tiny bit.”

“How long will you be here?”

Greg lifts a shoulder. “I’m not sure. Can we talk?”

*

They snag a table on the sidewalk where Magpie lies at their feet under Mycroft’s chair, menus in hand. The business of being seated and discussing food eases the tension of being with each other again.

“What would you like?” Mycroft leans his chin on his fist.

New York City is warm and dry, bordering on hot. Greg likes this version of Mycroft whose elbows are on a dining table. They choose starters and drinks, opting to share a pizza. Orders placed, there is a long moment where he’s able to watch Mycroft’s long elegant fingers playing with the cutlery.

“You owning a bookshop is rather brilliant.”

“Thank you. If I hadn’t joined the services I’d have been a librarian or a researcher.”

Greg chuckles. “Those occupations are not parallel, Myc.” He has a fleeting image of Mycroft stealing along book stacks in his bespoke suits with a penlight and a duster.

“There is little difference between being an analyst and being a scholar.” Mycroft protests. “It makes perfect sense.”

“If not the international intrigue.”

“Nonsense.” Mycroft sips from his water glass. “You’ve misunderstood the world of book hunting, it’s not as tame as it appears.”

Greg huffs a laugh.

“Really. It’s about using one’s mind to its fullest. Nothing more.”

This sounds so startlingly like something Sherlock said years ago Greg narrows his eyes. “Not that part. The power part. The importance. Who cares if you find a book?”

Mycroft begins to object, then bows his head briefly.

 _Wrong._ Greg slides a hand across the table and touches the back of his hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”

“No, you’re right.” Mycroft looks up. To Greg’s relief, Mycroft is smiling. “There is a vast difference in duty and risk.”

“You miss it?”

“I don’t. When I was younger, I’d’ve been sick with missing the action and responsibility. It gave me purpose. In some odd way, having done it all allows me to feel I’ve earned my leisure. Silly. Yet, true.”

Greg turns the thought over. “I can see that. Right before you lot managed to get into so much trouble with your sister I had been thinking that I’d done my part. Saved the lives I was meant to. Ready to let someone else have a turn at it all.”

“Indeed.” The blue eyes pin him. “You went to considerable trouble to find me.” Mycroft offers.

“I get it that life’s about how well you deal with loss, but christ. Enough, yeah?” Greg sips his water. “Seems like as soon as I fall in love with anyone they vanish.” He nearly succeeds at keeping strains of melancholy from his voice. “No. Scratch that. Felt like there was a sliver of chance we could be more.” He gestures between them. He glances out across the pavement before his gaze comes back to Mycroft.  “Then you were gone without a word.”

 _Fall in love with._ Mycroft’s brain etches the phrase deep into memory. “You must know I cannot return to London anytime soon.”

Greg nods. “I assume. Nothing to say I can’t come here occasionally. Friends in high places and such.”

“Greg.”

“I’m here. Can we give in to this just once and see where it takes us?”

“This, as you call it, is so much more complicated than you imagine.” Mycroft can’t think of anything he’d want more.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m past caring about complicated, Mycroft.” Greg extends his index finger to trace up the side of Mycroft’s left hand. “I am 3 years away from mandatory retirement from active duty with nowhere good to go. I’m no desk jockey. I’m certainly no politician.”

“What did you think you would do?”

“Die in the line of duty.”

“Greg.”

“I thought I’d have a family. Kids. Grandkids. I thought I’d have some reason to keep playing football, to cook, to be. That’s just not how it worked out.”

Mycroft weighs the disillusion in Greg’s tone and posture. Why on earth hadn’t the man recognized the need for a backup plan? He girds himself and asks the question he initially intended, “Why have you come all this way?”

Greg meets his eyes with a startling flash of heat.

The waiter sets a plate of bruschetta on the table between them. While they nibble the crusty bread, Greg avoids answering the question, instead, he relates how he got a message across the Atlantic and how the Queen orchestrated the rest. “Dumb luck, really.” He finishes.

“Yes. Well.” Mycroft catalogues the points of intersection, none of them actually chance, that made finding him possible for this one man. This one man who excels at his work, is persistent and loyal beyond measure, and pays careful attention to details. This one man who, now that he considers it, he would be able find as well. Though he will have to thank his great aunt. He’s never doubted that she always acts in his best interest. Evidence of such is welcome all the same.

Mycroft’s eyes are soft bright. The sunlight flickers gold light into their depths in an insanely attractive way. Greg examines his expression closely. If Greg’s learned anything, he has learned that where Mycroft is concerned silence is not no. Sherlock will drown you in words. Mycroft will do the same with none. Greg nudges his foot to Mycroft’s under the table, slides his trainer along the inside arch of Mycroft’s until their ankles graze. The gesture is rewarded with a tiny curve of lips. Greg grins.

Mycroft lets Greg change the subject to an editorial on the benefits of Sherlock and John finally, finally acting on their feelings for each other and tales of Sherlock parenting. How he’d love to see that. The knowledge is good, comforting. He tells Greg about Lampung in detail.

*

For long moments Greg submerges in a bliss of taste, smell, touch. He wants to drown in Mycroft, just in case, just in case this is a one time luxury. Just in case this is happening in his imagination.

The constant swirl of Mycroft’s intellect stills. Greg is gravity and  Mycroft is helpless before the pull. He’s falling in the full knowledge he will never recover. The realization quakes through his body in a shivery mix of anticipation and apprehension, a frisson of hesitation in the face of utter surrender.

Greg shudders in harmony with Mycroft’s tremble and wrenches his consciousness back to attention. Because the man in his arms needs, no, deserves to be cherished. He traces his hands, palms flat, up the expanse of Mycroft’s back. He softens their kiss, sucks gently on Mycroft’s bottom lip. He breathes in and looks up. Mycroft’s expression is open, his eyes are wells of desire. A corner of Greg’s mouth lifts. “D’you have a sofa, or a bed maybe?”

Mycroft grins, a flash of delight zings around in his chest. “Yes.”

Greg adores the twinkle of mischief in Mycroft’s smile, humor he’s glimpsed a thousand times. His belly contracts as his hand tightens around Mycroft’s and he follows. The length of a short hallway is enough space and time for Greg’s befuddled brain to sort out how long it’s been since he’s been with another man, or anyone, the potential lack of supplies for this. His thoughts flicker back to college and all the things they can do without lube or condoms, with just his mouth, or only hands. The thought of his hands on Mycroft’s cock nearly undoes him, christ, the thought of the hollow of the man’s throat takes his breath away. He’s oblivious to their destination, pulling Mycroft to a stop and pressing his nose to his cheek. “God, let me see you.” He whispers, tugging gently on Mycroft’s tie.

Mycroft runs his hands up inside Greg’s pullover palming up his belly and across his chest. Greg may’ve taken the words right out of his thoughts because he wants so badly to see all of this beautiful man. Greg is well constructed, his torso and limbs proportioned and balanced, trim and strong. He is altogether unlike the gangly Holmes physique and Mycroft wants to see all the connections. He wants to touch the places where neck meets shoulder, arm curves into chest, leg meets groin, those remarkable seams that hold this man together like artwork. Mycroft’s palm grazes over a nipple and Greg’s intake of breath makes his cock pulse. He tucks his nose into Greg’s neck and breathes him in, sweat, coffee, sandalwood, safety.

Cuffs first, Greg drops cufflinks into Mycroft’s pocket and is rewarded with a huff of approval and the feel of Mycroft’s smile against his neck. He’s equally deliberate with the pocket watch. He makes systematic quick work of the waistcoat. It is a bit like worship, this patient unwrapping, each layer closer to what he wants. He pops open the top button of the cream white oxford shirt and, here, he finds the tender dip at the base of a long neck, a sprinkle of freckles, and the barely visible thump of heartbeat. _My heart_. Warmth floods Greg’s chest, up his throat and touches his face.

Mycroft slides Greg’s pullover up and Greg lifts his arms so he can take it off. A sweet blush stains his chest, neck, and cheeks. Mycroft pauses to admire.

“‘S been a while.” Greg’s mouth firms in chagrin.

Mycroft marvels at the possession in Greg’s touch. His hands are broad and blunt and they hold. Fingertips curl and curve and redefine Mycroft’s borders. Mycroft has never felt so fully consumed, embraced, loved.

“Greg.” Mycroft’s eyes narrow. “How long?”

Greg’s gaze flickers away while he considers more avoidance. Mycroft sees the instant of surrender. The gaze returns. “Since I met you.”

Mycroft furrows his brows. “But, you were…”

“Married to someone else. Yeah. I know.” Greg admits. “Someone I really liked because that was the best I could do after Julia and Luke died.” He shrugs a shoulder without looking away. He’s made his peace with the contradictions there.

Mycroft cups his cheek and kisses him. “I’m so sorry.” He’s not sure what he’s apologizing for, the loss, not noticing, not responding. Maybe all of it.

Greg shakes his head. “I never thought you’d be interested in me. Quite frankly, I probably would have done anything to know you were well. But this. This is your great aunt’s doing. I’d never presumed. I didn’t imagine. That you’d... I didn’t,” Greg seems to run out of words.

“I didn’t know.”

He quirks a brow. “Hard to believe.”

“Nonetheless.”

Greg drags his fingers lightly down Mycroft’s cheek, his expression all wonder. Mycroft’s heart squeezes. His breath catches. Amazing. His lungs fill up with emotion and he struggles to breathe around the weight of it all. No one has ever wanted him like this and he is swamped by the power of Greg’s desire. He can only step closer and kiss hard, pour astonishment and passion into the kiss.

“I want you.” Greg’s voice rumbles against his lips.

“Same.” Mycroft stares, memorizing everything about the muscles of Greg’s shoulders, the pattern of hair across his chest and belly.

Greg pushes Mycroft’s shirt from his shoulders. It hits the floor in a whisper. “I’ve always wanted you.” He rests his hand on the center of Mycroft’s chest amidst russet hair on the creamy freckled skin. He presses a kiss to the notch of his collarbone and steps closer, reveling in the feel of so much skin against skin, it has been so long since anyone held him. The pleasure drops his head to Mycroft’s shoulder with a long sigh. While he has fantasized plenty, touching Mycroft is a lush magic beyond his abilities to dream.

The sound Greg makes is delicious and yearning. Mycroft had resigned to never having anything like this. He’d resigned to having nothing at all. Yet, here is more than everything. In his arms. He takes Greg’s mouth in a kiss that begins hard and deepens, pushing all his desire into the contact, raw and needy, and, “Unnng, Gregory.”

His name between their lips is incendiary. Greg burns from the inside. He surges forward, presses his hips to Mycroft’s and grinds.

“Yes.” Mycroft bites Greg’s lip and rocks, he lifts a hand to his hair, holding their kiss fast and dips his other hand to grip Greg’s cock through his jeans.

Despite wanting to spend perhaps the rest of his life just licking and kissing and learning everything he can of Mycroft, Greg won’t last, will come in his pants like a kid unless he can organize some kind of action. Mycroft deftly unbuttons and unzips his jeans. Yes, there. He shoves his jeans and pants from his hips and the press of silk covered cock against his erection draws a moan up from below his lungs. Mycroft’s trousers and pants drop away and Mycroft’s cock fits in his hand, long, slender, velvet over steel. There are cushions behind his knees and Greg sits, bringing Mycroft to stand between his thighs where he can - _yes_.

Mycroft gasps at the suddenness of Greg’s mouth swallowing him down, fist clenched on the base of his cock. It is too much and he needs. Needs to reciprocate. He cups the back of Greg’s head. Greg’s hand on his belly holds him still for a long moment while that talented tongue laves around his cock.

“Here.” Greg nudges and tugs until they are in bed, Mycroft atop him, bringing their hips in line, cocks slotting together. He uses his hand to encircle them both and stroke. “Nnnnng, yeah, gods, Myc.”

Mycroft holds himself arched on elbows. He stares at Greg’s hand stroking them with a punishing rhythm. This position won’t allow him to thrust without falling and the suspension shreds his resolve. His climax starts somewhere near the small of his back and coils through his bollocks, spiraling out of him in thick ribbons of pearly viscous come over Greg’s taut belly and chest.

 _Alive_. Greg thrusts higher to meet Mycroft’s orgasm. Gorgeous. His heart incarnate in this man in his arms. Then there it is. He is snatched over the edge and into a whiteout of blissful oblivion with a shout.

For a few seconds, Mycroft shifts his balance and gets his free hand on Greg to ride out his orgasm, beautiful, and incredibly here beneath him. Greg’s hands grasp his shoulders and that’s all it takes to collapse him onto the mattress. Awash in pleasure, they fold around each other, sticky and sated.

“Brilliant.” Greg nuzzles Mycroft’s shoulder.

“You’re lovely.” Mycroft wonders aloud. He feels acutely present in a way he hasn’t in years. Possible longer even than that.

Greg’s brow flickers up. “We should clean up.”

“Agreed.”

Greg follows Mycroft further into the ensuite, mesmerized by his pert bottom and well-muscled thighs. In the bathroom, Mycroft looks him over, a grin spreading. Greg looks down to where he is covered in come from his breastbone to his hips. He takes in Mycroft, who wears a few damp patches as well. “Do you mind if I shower?” He asks.

“Not if I can join you.”

Mycroft naked is even better in the light, water glinting over rosy skin. Greg lets the hot water rinse him off while he enjoys the stretch of Mycroft’s skin over bone and muscle, unable to resist tracing his hands along every piece of flesh he can. “So beautiful.” He murmurs. His heart swells with gratitude. He presses care and affection onto Mycroft’s skin, questing over him with hands and eyes and mouth greedily, a hum under his breath.

Mycroft leans into Greg’s touch, soaking up the intensity of connection and what has to be love. The emotion swamps around them, through him, makes words superfluous. He sinks into the happiness, soothing soap over Greg’s  chest and belly. He communicates with gentle and thorough touches, slipping fingers under his bollocks, up his crease, in a slow sensual caress.

The contact between them is sensual and intimate. Bathing seems a continuation of making love. The strength of his emotion fills Greg's empty spaces. “Without you I was broken.”

Mycroft gathers him near. “Mmmm. I’ve been broken long and longer.” He murmurs.

“I’d rather be broken with you.” Greg feels Mycroft’s answering smile against his shoulder.

*

Greg wakes to the remarkable comfort of a heavy arm around his ribs, a warm chest at his back, snugged into the curve of Mycroft’s long body. Mycroft’s being so physical is a brilliant surprise. Lips caress the back of his shoulder.

“Good morning,” Mycroft says, softly.

Greg shifts and rolls to face Mycroft with a sleepy grin. “Hi.” He strokes his fingers through Mycroft’s beard, brushing his lips lightly over his mouth, burying his nose in the beard and breathing deeply. Long fingers play along his flanks and hips, affection just short of arousing. Their legs tangle and Greg slips a knee between Mycroft’s thighs, easing closer still.

Mycroft revels in the full body glide. “Stay.” He whispers.

“Please.” Greg meets his eyes.

“Stay forever.” Mycroft breathes.

“Yeah. Of course. Yes.”

*

When DCI Greg Lestrade extends his Québecois vacation from several weeks to a sabbatical no one is terribly surprised. The man is a notorious workaholic who has had a break coming for a decade. When his resignation comes, months later, with news of a position with Sûreté du Québec, his former colleagues can’t think of anyone more deserving. Furious, Sherlock complains bitterly and loudly. He openly refutes Lestrade’s job change until a royal audience silences him on the subject. At least in public.

 

**Author's Note:**

> There's a lovely Jack Johnson song called 'Broken' that inspired this story.


End file.
